


Yuanfen

by Ricky B (littletoes101)



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Death, Gore, M/M, Murder, Rape, just hold out for like the middle of the fic, yeah this is kind of a dark fic??? it gets happier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:58:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littletoes101/pseuds/Ricky%20B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>yuanfen – a Chinese word, meaning a relationship by fate or destiny.</i> No matter how hard it seemed, or how many times he felt like their love had been lost, Luck trusted the yuanfen between them to bring him and Dallas back together again. [Modern day AU, Luck/Dallas centric]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Koi no Yokan

**Author's Note:**

> _(Japanese) The sense one can have upon first meeting a person that the two of you are going to fall in love. Differs from “love at first sight” as it does not imply that the feeling of love exists, only the knowledge that a future love is inevitable._

The boy knew instinctively that something was wrong when he saw the little reddish-haired boy sitting alone on the wooden swing, moving back and forth halfheartedly. Luck had never seen this boy before, but he looked very sad and almost...angry. At this point in time, the innocence in Luck's heart was still strong, and seeing someone sad was something the boy simply couldn't ignore. Without any other forethought, he ran over to the boy, standing in front of him. The other's cobalt blue eyes moved to address him, and he frowned.

“What do ya' want?” He muttered. Despite the cold face the boy put up, Luck could see the pain hiding there, and he smiled.

“I don't want anything,” he replied, sitting down. “You looked sad. So I came to say hello.” The boy blinked, a small flash of confusion crossing his face. Luck's smile grew wider.

“Well, I ain't sad.” The boy kicked a bit of dirt with one of his expensive-looking shoes. “What's that stupid thing?” He pointed at the stuffed rabbit that Luck held, and Luck clutched it tighter to his chest.

“He's not stupid.” Luck stated firmly. “He's my pal!”

“Everything's stupid, 'cause I'm stupid. That's what Dad says.” The boy was now looking at him like he'd been kicked, and Luck pushed out his lower lip a bit and puffed out his chest.

“You're not stupid! Nobody's stupid,” Luck told him matter-of-factly. The other boy was quiet for a moment, before looking back at Luck.

“But only babies have stuffed animals. My sister's a baby an' she has a kitten, a stuffed one. Yer not a baby, are ya?” Luck pushed out his lip a bit more at that.

“No, I'm not. I'm six.” He held out one of his hands, palm-up, and the thumb on his other hand stuck up. “And I have three brothers. They have stuffed animals, and they're all older than me.” The other boy looked surprised.

“You have a lot of brothers. I only have a brother and a sister.” He sounded sad again. “I get lonely.” Taking the boy's hand, Luck looked at him seriously.

“Don't worry, when I grow up, I'll marry you. Then you won't have to be alone, 'cause when you're married you can never, ever leave.” The boy looked at Luck, shocked.

“Boys can't get married to boys,” he stated.

“Sure they can,” Luck told him. “Anyway, I can do whatever I want!” He smiled at the boy, who finally managed to smile back. “And I won't forget, I promise.” Just as he said that, a familiar voice called his name, and he looked over his shoulder. “That's my Mama. I gotta go home.” He gave the boy's hand a final squeeze before letting go. As he turned to leave, the boy called;

“Wait! I don't even know yer name!”

“Luck!” The blonde called back. “Luck Gandor!”

“Dallas Genoard!” The reddish-haired boy now stood up and waved at Luck, who waved back, before running out of sight.

It was the beginning of their relationship, and even at the tender age of six, they felt what they'd know in about two decades or so was “ _koi no yokan_ ”, the beginning of their lives together.


	2. Yahrzeit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _(Yiddish) It is the one year anniversary of the death of a family member._

“Dallas, come on, it's cold. You're gonna get sick.”

The now twelve-year-old Luck pulled gently at Dallas's sleeve, but the other boy shrugged him off. “Just a _minute_ , Luck. I promised Mom I'd stay. Just a few more minutes.” His voice cracked, and Luck looked away, knowing exactly what that sound meant. Dallas was going to cry, and if Luck watched him, he'd start crying too. But, he couldn't do that. He had to be strong.

This was Dallas's mother's _yahrzeit_ , after all. Dallas was still staring blankly at the cold marble slab that marked her resting place, brushing his hand across her name; _Daniela Martinez Genoard_. Her name was just as pretty as she had been, and though Luck hadn't known her much, he remembered her face. Anybody who saw a picture of Dallas and his mother would know instantly that they were related. They had the same shade of hair, the same eyes, the same face. Her skin was only a tad bit darker than Dallas's, too.

Luck looked at the watch on his wrist, reading the time as 7:41. “Dallas, it's time. It's...an official year now. Can we go home?”

Dallas was quiet for a minute, running his fingers through his hair as he sniffled. “Yeah. Yeah, lemme say goodbye.” He crouched down in front of the headstone, managing a smile as he uttered a few words in Spanish, but his face became stone cold again as he stood, taking the hand Luck extended out to him.

“You can stay tonight if you don't feel like walking home.” Luck's gentle voice cut through Dallas's red and grey haze of anger and sorrow, and he blinked, then sighed heavily. It wasn't the walking that bothered him; it was his stupid, stupid father. His stupid father, who acted like his mother was nothing but trash as soon as she'd gotten sick. His stupid father, who'd acted as if she didn't exist after she died. His stupid father, who'd had the nerve to yell at _him_ for being stupid when he insisted he go to the cemetery for her _yahrzeit_.

He hoped his father died. See if Dallas cared. See if he showed up to his funeral.

See if he held him in his arms and screamed for him not to go as he died in his arms.

“You sure yer brothers an' yer dad are cool with that?” Dallas asked, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stalked beside Luck. “I mean, fuck. I don't really care, forget I said anything.”

Dallas slept on the Gandor's couch that night, as he had for many nights ever since his mother died. The family had learned not to ask questions.

\---

Luck's father died a few weeks later, and the next year, they spent his _yahrzeit_ together. Dallas held Luck in his arms while he cried, shoving his face into his friend's chest and bawling. Luck swore, he _knew_ this was the last time this was going to happen. This was the last time he was going to be weak. He had to change, for his father, and for his brothers. This was his last day of being a child, and he was going to spend it acting like one.

“Does it get any easier?” Luck asked as Dallas cradled him in his arms. He hummed softly in response, his hand brushing over Luck's hair like he'd done to his own sister so many times. “I mean, dealing with it. Does it get easier?”

“No,” Dallas answered, harsh and true as always. “You more 'r less get numb after a while, but the pain's still there. The emptiness's still there.”

The next day, Luck woke up, put on the emotionless facade he'd become very used to wearing, gelled his hair back, and put on the suit his father had passed down to him. Keith and Berga didn't ask questions, and Claire had started to ask, to say, “why, why Luck, you don't have to grow up Luck,” but the boy ignored him, put on his coat, and went to take care of business.

He was a man now, after all.


	3. La Douleur Exquise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _(French) The excruciating pain experienced when wanting someone you cannot have. Narrower than “unrequited love,” as it refers specifically to the emotional experience of the one whose love is not being reciprocated._

By the time Luck finally realizes he's in love with Dallas, he's twenty, nearing twenty-one, and is still the shut-in loner that he's been since high school, devoting what time he didn't give to his friends entirely to keeping the “family Mafia business” alive. Dallas isn't too far behind him in age, but he's far ahead of him when it comes to social things; he's radiant, an open flower, a social butterfly with wings so beautiful Luck couldn't hope to compare. He spends more and more time thinking about him, and falls deeper and deeper into his own hole.

 _La Douleur Exquise._ That's what the French call this kind of thing, Claire's French wife Chane tells him one day. Well, not exactly tells him. She's mute, and usually they communicate with sign language, but she has to write the word for him to understand.

 _It is the feeling one feels when your love is unrequited,_ she explains to him. _But, are you sure that, whoever this may be, is not interested in you?_ She knows how Luck tends to blow things way out of proportion before they even begin, but Luck knows he doesn't have a chance.

 _I'm sure,_ he signs back, his hands shaking, before he excuses himself to go back to his bedroom.

Luck and Dallas are still as close as ever, but things have been different. Ever since their freshman year in high school, their differences have become more and more obvious, and their situations more and more deplorable. When he was a junior, Dallas's father finally kicked him out of the house. There were many, many reasons for him to do so, but the one he'd chosen as the final straw made Luck's blood boil and poison burn in his throat.

The middle Genoard had never been interested in girls, which was fine because Luck wasn't interested in them either, but Dallas came to the realization that the reason he was never interested in girls was because he was interested in _guys_ , and to be honest it was something Luck had been waiting for. Luck knew, ever since he was little. Luck knew from the moment he told Dallas he'd marry him when they were only six years old (they laugh about it now, but Dallas doesn't know how much Luck wants to fulfill that promise). However, Raymond Genoard was not having any of it, and despite the protests of Eve, Dallas was ousted from the house and left without a place to go to.

Well. That wasn't entirely true.

Until his senior year, Dallas lived with the Gandors. Hell, he'd practically lived with them even before his old man had gotten tired of him, so it wasn't much of a surprise to the Gandors when he showed up with a suitcase and announced in a chipper tone that Daddy had thrown him out and he was here to stay.

For a year, it was like a fairytale. Luck's time was occupied by Firo, Dallas, and Claire, and the four lived out the rest of their high school years like most normal high school boys do, laughing and pissing the time away with Luck constantly reminding them to do their damn homework so they'd be able to have careers when the time came.

And then, his friends were roped into the world of dating, and Luck stayed behind.

Firo and Claire were somewhat successful in their ventures. Firo had found an adorable red-head by the name of Ennis, and Claire was immediately smitten by Chane the moment he'd seen her at their community college.

Dallas, however, was not.

Almost all of his relationships ended with bruises. Not on the other, but on him. And God only knows why; Dallas wasn't the type of man to just submit to somebody, but those bruises and cuts had to come from somewhere. Hell, Luck had heard some of his arguments over the phone, and he grew more and more worried as time went on. What was going on? Dallas never would give him a straight answer—whenever Luck brought the topic up, it was quickly changed. But Luck could see the change in him.

Sometimes he'd come limping in Luck's apartment, laughing about how his black eye was a new fashion statement and limping was now cool, but there was no true emotion behind his sarcasm. His eyes lost their shine. His voice lost its luster. More often than not, he looked pale, and had these dark bags under his eyes that told Luck he hadn't slept in days. Luck had no idea what he did for a living, but he doubted it was legal, and most of the time Dallas depended on whatever boyfriend he was with for his living expenses. Rarely ever did he come to Luck, and only once had he asked anything from Eve, and whenever he did come to Luck, he came like a beaten dog, stuttering and averting his eyes as he spoke.

Something was horribly, horribly wrong. And the worst part about it was that Luck could do absolutely nothing, except tell Dallas it would be okay as he cleaned up his wounds and hushed his cries and nursed his hangovers.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Dallas would repeat to himself as he held a bag of ice to his face to ease the swelling and pain. “I'm a fucking idiot.” He'd mutter about apologies, mutter a name under his breath, a name that Luck had become much too familiar with.

He and this guy James had been together for about a year, and he seemed to be the cause of most of Dallas's injuries, both physical and emotional, lately. Luck had seen less and less of him because of it, and every day that went by without any word from Dallas made him paranoid. From the way Dallas spoke of him, he didn't seem to be a very nice guy, but whenever Luck would point it out, Dallas would just laugh.

“Hey, he makes good money, an' 's not like I'm doin' anything legal. Ya' get what ya' give and I don't deserve any better than what I got.” And then Dallas shrugs and mutter something about needing to get home, and then he's gone again, leaving Luck to drown his sorrows with whiskey and his own damn tears.

Luck's _La Douleur Exquise_ grew.

Everything would boil over soon, though.


	4. Schadenfreude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (German) Happiness at other people’s misfortune.

“Where the fuck have you been, bitch?”

The voice is enough to stop Dallas in his tracks as he limps through the front door. He starts to shake as he smiles nervously at his boyfriend, hands clasped in front of his chest, bending his knees as James approaches. The overwhelming smell of alcohol is almost enough to make Dallas sick, which is remarkable, considering his own alcoholic tendencies.

“Just—just at a friend’s,” Dallas says, gulping nervously. Tears are pricking in the corners of his eyes and nothing’s even happened yet. The other man grabs his face, turns it left and right.

“You been whorin’ around, huh?” James snarled. “Am I not good enough for you, fuckin’ spoiled brat?”

“N-no, no, I mean, it’s not that you’re not good enough, I-I haven’t done anything, I-I just—he was worried about me – ” Dallas realizes it’s the wrong thing to say a moment too late, and his hand connects sharply against Dallas’s face. He gives a yelp, stumbling backwards, and James grabs him by the shirt and pulls him in close.

“Worried? Somebody worried about you?” He laughs. “Egocentric little bitch.” He shoves Dallas away, kicks him in the shin for good measure, and he falls, holding his arms up weakly. The slap to his face re-opened an old wound, and blood drips down his face, mixing with his tears and falling to the carpet. James curses, a beer bottle crashes against Dallas’s shoulder, and once more, he cries out.

“Clean your damn self up,” he snaps, and Dallas nods hurriedly. “Then we’ll talk.” From the smirk on his lips and the way he says it, Dallas knows that he doesn’t plan on talking. James makes his intent clear enough, and Dallas feels his eyes on him as he cleans his face, then the carpet. He knows this routine, and he realizes with a sinking feeling that he doesn’t want to do it anymore.

Still, Dallas slinks into his room like a kicked puppy, pulls his jeans and underwear off and sits like a good boy while James looks him over, touches him. Dallas screws his eyes shut, tries not to think when he rolls him over, tries to forget. God. He wishes he could just die.

He wishes, for a moment, selfishly, that Luck was here.

The man falls asleep when he’s done, and Dallas is aching and bleeding and when his adrenaline high fades only then does he realize how much pain he’s in. There’s no way he can walk back to Luck’s place like this. Shakily, Dallas crawls out from under James’s arm, pulls his clothes back on, slips his cellphone in his pocket and leaves without even putting shoes once.

Dallas tried this, once before, and the resulting beating had him in pain and misery for weeks. He won’t fuck up this time, though. Not this time.

He limps and runs as far as he can before pain overwhelms him. Cursing, Dallas collapses in front of a tiny corner store, fishes the phone out of his pocket, and dials Luck’s number.

Eve explained _schadenfreude_ once to him long ago, the concept of deriving pleasure from others’ misfortunes. Dallas himself had once done that, when he was young. He supposed this is just his punishment. He supposed he’ll be punished tenfold later for trying to escape his karma, for being selfish, but hell. Dallas is tired, hurting, and scared. He needs comfort, and Luck can supply it.

“Luck,” he croaks when he picks up. “Luck, help me, please, oh God, I need help.” The tears start flowing as soon as Dallas starts talking. “I – I…I can’t walk any more right now, my boyfriend, he – I was raped, I – yeah. Yeah, I’m in front of the little corner store. Please, please, hurry.” He cradles the phone against his ear, listening to the lull of Luck’s voice before he hangs up.

It’s not long before the hum of a car engine startles him, but as soon as he sees the car, he knows that it’s Luck. His tears change from ones of fear to ones of relief as Luck rushes over, looking worried and under-slept, but much better than Dallas. His eyes soften and his face gets this terribly sad look that Dallas can’t stand to look at, and he makes this little choked noise when Luck kneels and picks him up, holding him carefully, whispering soothing words into his ear as he carries him to the car.

Dallas doesn’t know why, but he cries and sobs and bawls all the way to Luck’s apartment, only stopping when he passes out next to Luck on his bed.


	5. Bilita Mpash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Bantu) The opposite of a nightmare. Not merely a “good” dream, but a “legendary, blissful state where all is forgiven and forgotten.”

They sleep together. There’s nothing intimate, just the two of them lying in a bed, sleeping like they have many times before.

But there’s something different about this time.

Gently, Luck runs his fingers through Dallas’s reddish-brown hair as the man sleeps on his chest. He looks so peaceful, for once, and relaxed. He is absolutely beautiful, and Luck feels the boyish impulse to kiss him, but. He resists. After what Dallas has been through, Luck can’t bring himself to do it.

“Mm…hnn…Luck?” Dallas opens his eyes, looks up at Luck, and his hand pauses on the back of Dallas’s head. Luck smiles, and Dallas manages to smile back, before a spasm of pain wracks his body. He screws his eyes shut, and his grip on Luck tightens. “Shit…Luck, can I…’s it alright if I use your shower?” The man is a disheveled mess, and honestly, he needs a shower. Luck nods and slides out of the bed, helping Dallas limp to the bathroom. The pain is just now hitting him full-force, that much is obvious.

Dallas wants to shower alone, which is more than reasonable, but as soon as Luck’s gone from his side, Dallas almost wishes that he hadn’t made him go. That is, until he starts disrobing and sees just how awful a condition he’s in, just how pitiful he looks. Luck doesn’t need to see him like this. The only one who needs to know how pitiful he is, is Dallas himself.

He tries not to think about that as he turns on the shower and gets in under the water so hot it’s almost scalding, but Dallas likes it that way. Steam fills the bathroom, and he feels himself relaxing, his tense muscles uncoiling, his breathing get easier. His mind wanders, and for the first time since that amazing _bilita mpash_ last night, he feels like he’s in a state of true bliss. Like he’s reached Nirvana.

All because he’s finally free. He’s finally _out_. Without even thinking about it, Dallas starts to cry again, but this time they’re happy tears, and he leans against the shower wall, laughing and crying like a fucking idiot.

God only knows how long he stays there, but eventually, Dallas shuts off the water and dries himself off, then realizes he probably shouldn’t put on his grimy clothes. Grimacing, Dallas pokes his head out of the bathroom door to see Luck still sitting on his bed, a book propped open on his thighs, reading intently. He coughs to get Luck’s attention, and he looks up suddenly.

“I’m sorry for, uh, interruptin’, but d’ya have any clothes I could borrow?” His words are so soft that they’re almost whispered, like he’s afraid of Luck yelling at him for his stupidity, or lashing out, or something like that. But Luck doesn’t do that; in fact, he just smiles and nods, pulls out a t-shirt and (at Dallas’s request) sweatpants, hands them to him, and that’s that.

The weight of what he’d done finally hit Dallas as he pulls the clothes on, and he freezes, looking at himself in the mirror. He’s still bruised and banged up, and there’s an obvious cut on his forehead. His shoulder hurts like hell, as do his hips and his legs. _Everything_ hurts, Goddammit, and Dallas clenches his jaw, grinds his teeth. He really is a fucking idiot.

He steps out of the bathroom and into Luck’s room, shaking like he’s cold or something, when really he’s just scared. He plops back down next to Luck, curls up in his arms, and buries his face in his chest. “Luck, I…Luck, I’m scared.”

“I know, but it’s alright,” Luck assures him, holding him close. “I’m here for you, just like I’ve always been. I’ll take care of it, and I’ll take care of you.”

“That’s the fucking issue,” Dallas whines. “I’m—I’m—I’m so fucking incompetent! I can’t take care of my damn self, which is why I’m _in_ this damn situation in the first place!” A few tears roll down his cheeks and onto Luck’s baggy sleep-shirt. “I deserve what happened to me.”

Luck’s eyes darken and his lips press into a thin frown, and Dallas flinches, wondering if he’s pissed Luck off, but he just says, “Don’t you dare say that. You don’t deserve what happened to you, and neither does anyone else who gets raped.”

“But…but…” Dallas whimpers, biting his lip as he presses back up against Luck. “I…I’m _terrible_ to you, Luck. Ya’ do so much for me…give me so much…an’ I don’t do shit in return.” His voice pitches, and then drops. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Your friendship is enough,” Luck replies. “And it doesn’t matter, I don’t care if you give me anything back, because I…” He trails off, unsure if he should finish, before he finally continues, “I love you, Dallas Genoard.”

“Nobody loves me,” Dallas mutters.

“You’re wrong,” Luck counters, rubbing his thumb gently across Dallas’s unscathed cheek. “But, it’s okay. I don’t blame you for being skeptical. You’re hurting and you need help, huh?”

He nods numbly, and Luck holds him to his chest, rocks back and forth really slow like he’s thinking. “We’ll get you help, okay? We’ll fix this.” Dallas is quiet, not saying a word, until the even rise and fall of his chest tells Luck that he’s gone back to sleep.


	6. Geborgenheit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (German) To feel completely safe; like nothing could ever harm you. Usually connected to a particular place or person.

Dallas sleeps for almost three days straight. Luck doesn’t bother him while he’s sleeping, and every once and a while he gets up to go to the bathroom or get a drink, and then he’s right back to sleeping again. Luck figures that he probably hasn’t been getting a lot of sleep recently, so all he does is make sure that he’s as comfortable as possible.

On the fifth day of Dallas being in Luck’s apartment, he finally wakes up. He stumbles into the kitchen where Luck’s making a salad for himself, and Luck turns to acknowledge him.

“Hey. Feeling better?” Dallas nods and sits down at the table, rubbing at his eyes. He looks a little better, but not the best he’s ever been, obviously. His cuts and bruises and sores are still very visible, and he flinches every once and a while. After a few moments of silence, he finally says,

“I’m being fucking stupid. I—I need to go back, to apologize, to somethin’.” He starts to get up, but Luck’s at his side in a second, gently grasping his wrist.

“No,” he says firmly. “No, you’re not being stupid. You don’t need to go back, and you certainly don’t need to apologize.”

“Yes, I am!” Dallas snaps back, yanking his wrist away. He flinches after he does it, like he expects Luck to hit him, but upon realizing that no retaliation is coming, he continues. “I don’t deserve to be here with you! I don’t deserve you carin’ about me! I don’t deserve…” He trails off, and his voice drops to barely above a whisper. “You.”

Carefully, slowly, Luck takes a few steps forward, gently puts an arm around Dallas’s waist. Dallas presses his forehead against Luck’s chest, lays his palms flat against his shoulder blades. He’s crying again, and this is more than he’s ever cried, but Luck doesn’t care. Better to let it out than to keep it in, anyway, and Dallas has always been more expressive in that area than Luck has ever been. He puts his hand against the back of Dallas’s head, cradling it there carefully.

“That’s not for you to decide,” Luck says just as softly. He presses his nose into Dallas’s hair, closes his eyes. “You can’t make any rational decisions or judgment right now. You’re not ready.”

“Will you make them for me?” Dallas’s voice shakes, as does his body, and he turns to look up at Luck. He opens his eyes, gives a faint smile.

“That was the plan.”

“Will you help me?”

“Haven’t I been doing that?”

“Will you be my _geborgenheit_?”

Luck pauses. Could he do that? Could he be Dallas’s rock, his safe place? Could he keep him safe from harm? Of course he could, but it’s up to Dallas whether he wants to play along or not.

“Yes, if that’s what you want me to be.”

Dallas’s fingers curl into Luck’s clothes, and tears fill his eyes as he cups the sides of Luck’s cheeks in his hands and leans up to kiss him.


	7. Naz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Urdu) The word means “pride/arrogance”, but of a special sort. Naz is “the pride, the assurance that arises from knowing you are loved. From knowing that no matter what you do, you will always be loved”.

At first, Dallas is too scared, too weary to officially call Luck his boyfriend. It doesn’t bother Luck as much as he thinks it should; he’s thankful that Dallas even trusts him enough to let him hold his hand, much less call him his boyfriend. His main goal now is to let him know he’s loved, that he’s good enough for Luck to love him without him having to do anything.

It makes him angry to begin with, but whenever Dallas lashes out at Luck, he immediately apologizes and bursts into tears. It makes Luck angry, too, but not at Dallas. Rather, it makes him angry to the ones who made him feel like he needed to react that way.

That he needed to push away all the people who truly loved him and lock himself down in his own pit of despair and depression.

Luck takes time to gently caress his cheeks, all the sore parts of his body, all the parts Dallas hates, and kiss them gently. It’s not sexual, just caring, loving. He makes absolutely sure that every touch he gives him is full of love, every brush of his fingertips and stroke of lips across his dark, Spanish-toned skin. He tells him how beautiful he is, how much he loves him, how perfect he is even when he’s not doing anything at all.

Dallas doesn’t cry as much anymore, and he shivers less at Luck’s touches. Their kisses grow bolder and deeper, and their sleeping arrangements get closer, more intimate. When Dallas can finally work up the courage to pull his shirt off in front of Luck, the other spends the night with his body pressed up close and tight next to him, tracing patterns with the scars on his back, sides, and arms. Dallas doesn’t flinch away, either; he leans into the touches like a cat, lets Luck rest one hand on his thigh and rub small circles there.

Eventually, Luck convinces himself, Dallas will grow bold enough to develop _naz_. Luck explains it to him one day, and Dallas is afraid.

“I don’t wanna go back to how I was,” he says quickly at the first few words of the definition. “Then it’ll start all over again.”

“It’s not like that,” Luck says back. He puts a hand over his, laces their fingers together. “It’s a pride in knowing that you’re loved. Not just pride in general.”

“Pride that you’re loved…” Dallas leans his head into Luck’s chest, right below his chin. “I could have that. I could.”

It’s a step in the right direction, and even though they still have a long way to go, Luck doesn’t regret it. If he can’t make Dallas see that there’s something worth living for, then there’s no way he’ll get better.

He’s determined not to lose Dallas like he’s lost so many others.


	8. Přizabít se

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Czech) Literally it means “to nearly kill oneself” and it is often used in colloquial Czech when referring to a situation in which someone was very close to getting seriously hurt, but surprisingly managed to survive without any severe harm.

Eventually, the day comes, and Dallas relapses.

Luck gets the call from the hospital while he's out in one of the hideouts with his brothers for a routine interrogation. Tensions have been running high with rival families, and although Luck was reluctant to leave Dallas alone, even after them being together for almost six months, he knows his brothers need his help. As soon as he gets that call, as soon as the phone slips from his hand onto the wooden table with a clatter, as soon as he lets out a cry of agony that no human should have been able to make, everything else completely leaves his mind as he focuses on Dallas.

He feels sick the whole way there, and he wants to cry, but no tears will come as he grips the steering wheel with unnecessary force.

"I shouldn't have left him alone," he mutters to himself. "I shouldn't have left them out where he could get them. I'm stupid. I'm so, fucking, stupid." Luck curses, and repeats the phrases to himself until he walks through the doors to the hospital, his legs trembling as he leans on the receptionist's desk.

"I need to speak with Maiza Avaro immediately," he growls to the man behind the computer. Once a bookkeeper for the Martillo family, his old friend Maiza Avaro left behind the life of a Camorrista to pursue a doctorate's degree, and it just so happened that this particular hospital was the one he worked at. Luck knew that Maiza was the only man he could trust in a situation like this, and even though he wasn't Dallas's next of kin, Maiza could get him in. "And I mean _immediately._ Don't fuck with me." Usually, Luck could control his true emotions behind a façade of complete control, but he's losing it. The man looks absolutely terrified, to hear the real anger and desperation in Luck's voice, and he phones a number, tells Luck to wait for just a few moments.

His shaky legs can't hold him anymore, and Luck collapses into one of the plastic chairs, gripping the arms like it's the last thing he has left, the only thing anchoring him to reality, as his thoughts swim in his head. He remembers the call, what they told him, and the shaking moves from his legs, slowly crawling up his torso.

Cutting. Dallas had cut himself again. He'd been clean ever since he'd come to live with Luck, but something must have pushed him over the edge today. He'd used one of the kitchen knives, the big ones, and according to what the nurse on the phone told him, there were multiple fresh lacerations on his wrists and legs. He'd nicked an artery, apparently, and that's what caused most of the bleeding. He'd at least had the sense to call an ambulance before he lost consciousness, and she said that it'd probably saved his life. Had he not, he would've been dead by the time Luck was supposed to get home three hours later.

At first, Luck doesn't notice that Maiza's come until he rests a hand on his shoulder, gently murmurs his name. Luck jumps, looking at him with huge eyes wide with fear and self-loathing, before he realizes who he's looking at and relaxes. Luck doesn't say anything as Maiza pulls him up to help him stand, gripping his hand to keep him steady. "Come on, I'll take you back," Maiza says, leading him down a hallway and into an elevator. It feels long, too long, and Luck swallows heavily as he leans against his friend.

"He's stable now that he's awake," Maiza explains when the doors open, leading them into another corridor. They go through a pair of double doors, Luck still feeling uncomfortably numb. "He was very nervous when he first woke up, but he should be alright now. It's truly amazing that he doesn't have any serious injuries--a quick blood transfusion, stitches, and some fluids were all he really needed. Besides that nick to the artery, none of the other cuts were very deep. He's..." Maiza stops himself, but Luck knows what he'd say. Dallas is experienced. He knows how to make himself hurt, how to make himself bleed without causing serious damage.

When they get to the door, Maiza knocks twice. The lack of an answer tells him that the person inside only wants Luck, and Maiza nudges him closer to the door so he can open it. His arm limp, Luck grips the doorknob, turns the handle, and slips in the crack just wide enough so he can get through before he shuts the door. He wastes just a few seconds composing himself before he turns around, letting his eyes settle on the figure in the bed.

Dallas doesn't turn to look at him, and Luck doesn't expect him to. He knows Dallas's mentality well enough, now, to know that he's probably terrified. He's probably been thinking about this since the moment he woke up, thinking about how Luck would react, thinking about how the scene would play out. He can tell from the redness of Dallas's eyes that he's been crying, and Luck wonders, vaguely, if he'll break down again. Slowly, he approaches the bed and sits on the edge next to Dallas, reaching out to gently stroke the back of his hand. There's an IV attached to him, and Luck makes careful note not to touch it as he slips his fingers between Dallas's, looking down at his face.

There's a long, uncomfortable silence before anyone says anything. "I relapsed," Dallas rasps quietly, tears welling up in his eyes again. It's been such a long time since Luck's seen Dallas cry. "I fucked up."

"No, you didn't," Luck murmurs, reaching over with his other hand to gently stroke Dallas's hair, easy as if he was petting a hurt puppy. "And it's okay. Relapsing is okay, Dallas. I just...I just wish you would've called me before you did, you scared the hell out of me." His throat tightens around his words, and Luck swallows heavily. "Scared the hell out of a lot of people."

"I know." Dallas's voice is barely above a whisper, and the tears roll down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Lucky, I just...I was scared. I was upset. I've been hidin' stuff from you, an' I felt so bad, I didn't know what to do." He pauses, breathing in a shaky, clipped manner. "I didn't even realize I was doin' it until I saw the blood. There was so much."

Luck moves a bit closer, stretches out so he can lie next to him, hand still twined with his. Dallas rests his head on Luck's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Finally, he can muster up the courage to say what he needs to. "Luck, I'm--I--I'm--I'm three months pregnant," he sighs, and Luck almost bolts upward, but stops himself before he does. He starts crying harder now, gripping Luck's hand tight. "I got real sick an' I thought I might be a couple weeks ago, so I took a test an'--I found out last week."

"Dallas," Luck breathes, rubbing his thumb across Dallas's cheek. He flinches, something he hasn't done in a long time, and Luck feels his own tears coming in rivers down his face. "Oh...Dallas, you're not--you didn't--"

"We're both fine," Dallas cuts him off. "It'was the first thing I asked about when I woke up." Swallowing heavy again, Dallas puts one of his palms flat against his belly. "That's why I called the hospital. I didn't--I couldn't lose this baby, Luck. It's ours. I couldn't live with myself." He sniffs and takes hiccupping breaths. "I thought you'd leave. I didn't think you'd want this. I thought you'd leave an' I'd be alone an' then he--he'd come to get me 'cause I've been havin' nightmares and...and..." Dallas's breathing deepens, and Luck can tell by the panicked look on his face that he's going into an attack, and Luck quickly pulls him in close, hugging him tight. The pressure of Luck's body and his gentle, even breathing calms him, and Dallas starts to relax, still shaking and crying from the almost-attack. "Please don't leave me, Luck."

"I'm not going to," Luck murmurs, pressing soft, butterfly kisses against his temple, forehead, and scalp. "It's going to be okay, sweetheart. It's going to be okay."

Luck doesn't let go of Dallas, and they stay curled up like that, pressed together on the hospital bed until they fall asleep.


	9. Sarang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _(Korean) Pronounced as “sa-rong”, this is an expression of the wish to be with someone until death._

Even with Luck's promise not to leave, it's obvious that Dallas doesn't believe him. It seems like his relapsing shattered all of the progress he'd managed to make so far, and now Dallas won't even stay in the same room with Luck for more than five minutes. Luck knows that he feels guilty for hiding his secret for so long, but Luck's repeated attempts to tell him that _it's okay, I'm not mad,_ go unheard.

Or, rather, Dallas just doesn't want to believe them.

Luck knows that he has to do _something_ to show Dallas that he's there for him, so whenever he gets up to be sick, Luck follows him into the bathroom and rubs his back while he's crouched over the toilet or the sink. Dallas doesn't protest, either; even if he wanted to, he couldn't do it easily anyway. As soon as he's done, Dallas darts back into the other room and locks himself in, leaving Luck alone once more.

It's almost-- _almost_ \--as painful as before they were together, seeing Dallas suffer like this.

Eventually, one night, neither of them can take it anymore. Luck's lying in bed, alone for the umpteenth night in a row, trying to calm his thoughts and get to sleep. Just as he's managing to doze off, sleep finally settling in his muscles and weighing them down, he hears the door creak open. He sits up suddenly, bristling, prepared for the worst, but when he looks over at the door it's just Dallas standing there, looking like he hasn't slept in a month. His hair is tangled, he looks ragged and beaten-down, like someone who has been fighting a battle with the world for twenty-two long years and is finally ready to put it all to rest. There are still bandages on his wrists, reminding Luck of the tragedy he wasn't able to stop. Dallas gives a miserable expression, and then walks over to the bed.

Now that there's no danger, Luck relaxes and motions for Dallas to sit next to him. Surprisingly, he accepts, lying down in the bed on top of the covers, body turned away from Luck. There's a silence that stretches on between them for a long time, before Dallas gives a shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry, Luck. I really am." His voice is soft like it is when he's scared that Luck will lash out at him. The other man rolls over so that he can touch Dallas's shoulder, but pulls back when he flinches.

"You don't have to be sorry--"

"Yes I _do!_ " Dallas snaps, and Luck doesn't expect that. He can see the tension in Dallas's shoulders, can tell by the way his shoulders shake that he's just barely keeping it together. "I've been treatin' you like _shit_ and you know it." Luck goes to argue, but he can't find the words. Dallas has always been so convinced of these false truths, of these lies, that it's nearly impossible to get him to believe anything else.

"That doesn't change how I feel about you, Dallas. Not one bit. You know that, at least, don't you?" The silence that follows gives Luck his answer. "Well. I suppose I haven't tried hard enough, then?"

"Luck--"

" _Shh._ " Luck leans over, puts one arm over Dallas and leans over him a bit so he can look at his face. Dallas doesn't stop him, but he won't make eye contact. "Hey, look at me, okay?" At his prompt, the other man's eyes look up at him, blue as lapis and holding back a flood of emotions that Luck can read easy as a book: fear, hatred, anger, regret. "I _love_ you. I'd do anything and everything for you, and I don't care who I have to prove it to or how I have to prove it."

"You already have," Dallas says, averting his eyes yet again. "By puttin' up with a dirty, no-good, lyin' whore like me."

" _Dallas_." It's firm, a little firmer than Luck would have wanted it to be, and Dallas flinched again. "That's not true." Then, he leans down, pressing his mouth to the nape of Dallas's neck. He doesn't move. Luck can feel each and every shuddering breath that racks his form. "I want to be with you until I die."

They don't sleep alone after that.


End file.
